


More Days of Quarantine

by lyricalsoul



Series: Days of Quarantine [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg is Sweet, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, blink and miss it angst, heated discussions, it's all love here, it's not Covid, more sourdough, panicking Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: And the quarantine rages on. Mycroft and Greg try to stay sane. They mostly succeed by panicking, yelling, and being domestic.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: Days of Quarantine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707334
Comments: 22
Kudos: 79
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection





	More Days of Quarantine

**Author's Note:**

> Things that happen here are so close to actual events... you don't even want to know about me and the flour incident. Celebrity names used flagrantly. 
> 
> Any mistakes, typos, whatever are there because they're there. You'll live. 
> 
> And hits are nice, but leave a comment or kudos to show your love/like/whatever. It only takes a second. Mean comments will be deleted and put on blast for all to see.

**Day Twenty-three**

“May I join you?”

“You have to ask?”

“In these uncertain times, yes.”

“We’re all right, Mycroft. Close quarters, tempers flare. Just... some things shouldn’t be said out loud, you know?”

“I am so very sorry.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.”

“Do you really hate the bed?”

“Maybe not hate, but… it’s a bit… it looks like it came from the set of Game of Thrones.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The set of the first Dracula film.”

“Nosferatu? That hardly seems like –”

“Mycroft. It’s not comfortable. The mattress is fine, but the frame is like if a wicked witch designed a bed. It makes it cold in here.”

“You could have just said.”

“I have said, many times. You don’t listen if it’s not interesting to you.”

“I’m trying.”

“Very.”

“And so. Do we continue in this vein, or shall we forgive us our transgressions, and move forward?”

“Is it really that easy?”

“We’ve had rows before, Gregory. And we’ve remained together, unscathed… well, perhaps we haven’t.”

“Stop reading me.”

“You’ve made me resort to doing so. I’m anxious enough about world events, and it’s distracting to have your anger simmering in the background. Please tell me what will help bridge the gap between us.”

“There’s no gap, love. You hurt me; I hurt you. Oh… you’re not hurt?”

“I will spare you the lecture on my so-called feelings, and will vow to do better, make the necessary changes, and wish you to do the same. If only because I cannot live in close quarters and not be with you. Not just physically, Gregory.”

“I know. I’m sorry, love. I don’t want to be without you. Ever. Let’s start over, back to way things were. Please.”

“Yes.”

“Still hate that bed.”

“Hush, now… just let me hold you. You can air your grievances later.”

“Big ball of mush is what you are… But your arms feel so good around me.”

**Day twenty-five**

“Heya, love. What are you doing up so late?”

“Looking for the tinned tomatoes.”

“Tinned tomatoes at… one in the morning? What’s going on?”

“I couldn’t sleep, and decided to research spaghetti bolognese recipes. I may have found one. It has four thousand positive comments.”

“Mycroft…”

“I wouldn’t want someone to come along and entice you away from me because my cooking is shit.”

“Shite, which has a different connotation. And I’m saying connotation at midnight. Shite is more… teasing, I think.”

“I notice you didn’t say you couldn’t be enticed away…”

“And leave all this?”

“Unhand me, you lascivious fiend.”

“It’s your silky pyjama trousers. And the dressing gown. So sexy. These stripes make your legs go on forever.”

“Gregory…”

“We’ve been too busy to have make-up sex, so I can’t be blamed.”

“You fell asleep.”

“Because you were scratching my hair. You know that relaxes me.”

“It soothes me to have you fall asleep in my arms, to hear your unfettered breathing. I still recall the second bout with pneumonia, and how your labouring for each breath terrified me.”

“I’m here, and I’m all right.”

“Now.”

“Yes. But, I, ah… didn’t think there was anything that could actually terrify you.”

“There are a great many things. Losing you is at the top.”

“Not Sherlock?”

“It isn’t a secret that my brother’s behaviour has caused me to use unconventional methods to maintain his safety. However, he has Dr. Watson and Rosamund now, which is a mighty incentive to stay on a less destructive path. What you and I share is meaningful on a different level, and so I would be affected in a different manner.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I’m gobsmacked.”

“How can you tell?”

“Hilarious. Look, don’t worry about the sauce. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s special that you even cook for me.”

“For us. I don’t wish to spoil your ridiculous image of me, but I didn’t have meals delivered by butterflies before we married.”

“’course not, because you hate butterflies. And you mostly ate at your club.”

“I can cook.”

“Yes, just not spag bol. It’s not a tragedy, love. In future, just know that I keep a few jars of scratch made bolognese in the freezer. Ah… here it is. All labeled and everything. Shows how much you use the freezer.”

“You make pasta sauce? From scratch? How did I not know this?”

“Again, you never open the freezer. Not to be snobbish about it, but this isn’t ‘pasta sauce’. It’s bolognese, which is simmered all day. It has cream and nutmeg in it, so be respectful.”

“Apologies.”

“I’m not just a battered old copper, Mycroft.”

“Oh, most assuredly.”

“Talk about lascivious. And I may have had an Italian boyfriend who taught me lots of things.”

“Did he?”

“About Italian food. Ah, Massimo. He would make this ravioli that was just mmmf… what?”

“I do hope that when we part, you speak of me in such nostalgic tones, and include a chef’s kiss.”

“We’re not parting, and don’t be jealous. It was ages ago.”

“And yet the memories live in our freezer. And… someone had to teach you how to do… that… thing. With your tongue.”

“Oh… I learned to do that by practising on an ice lolly. Never thought about doing it to anyone until you had me brought to that dank warehouse. The fantasies I had… lucky for you I was still married at the time.”

“Gregory. Let’s not get sidetracked. We were discussing bolognese and an Italian.”

“We weren’t talking about Massimo. The way I see it, the problem with your spaghetti is that you cook the pasta too long, and use rubbish sauce from a tin. And half of those four thousand comments for that recipe will be ‘this sounds good, five stars’, so you can’t trust that.”

“I used… oh, this is pointless.”

“It’s not. It will take an hour or so for this to defrost, and then I’ll show you how it’s done. We can even make the pasta from scratch.”

“Well… I suppose I am not too old a dog to learn a new trick. I can finish my work while we wait.”

“That’s one way to pass the time…”

“We could organise the freezer to make things easier to find.”

“Or we can have make-up sex. The deluxe version.”

“Ah, yes. Unfortunately, the deluxe version requires a limberness that I don’t have at this time. Might I suggest the executive?”

“I like how you think. Upstairs, then.”

“And after, we’ll have to discuss this Massimo, and exactly what he taught you…”

**Day twenty-five, later**

“We’re just going to do this on the worktop? This is very disconcerting, Gregory.”

“It’s easier this way. Trust me.”

“It’s messy. And wreaks havoc on my orderliness.”

“Just keep breathing, love.”

“Is it easier for you to teach me to make pasta while standing behind me?”

“Yes. Now stir the eggs with the fork. Easy, easy… right. Now start incorporating the flour as you stir. Yeah, that’s it… a little at a time… just like that.”

“Is this how Massimo taught you? Whispering in your ear, with his hands on your arse?”

“Well. He had a restaurant. I worked there. You know, clearing tables, washing up, making salads. He saw I was keen to learn, so he’d teach me after the place closed. It could be very sensual, but not like Ghost or anything.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“The bloke and woman with the clay…? Oh my god, Mycroft, you’re supposed to be the human Holmes. Your pop culture knowledge is sadly lacking.”

“Be that as it may, I’m more interested in your employer taking advantage of you. How old were you?”

“Now add the oil, and a sprinkle of salt. Right, right… keep flicking the flour in the egg mix, a bit at a time. I was twenty.”

“From the photos I’ve seen, twenty-year-old Gregory Lestrade was irresistible. And adding the art of pasta making to the mix would make any man lustful, but still, this Massimo should be ashamed.”

“Maybe he was harassing, but in my horny state, I didn’t see it that way. I felt like I’d gotten this fantastic job, and there was a man who was hot for me, and wanted to teach me things, so there wasn’t a downside. He didn’t press me. And… I was an arrogant bastard with no regard for anything other than getting a leg over. You’re lucky to have this version of me. Very humble, and mad for you.”

“Huzzah for me. Oh, it’s becoming a dough.”

“That means you’re on the right course. Now, take your hands and bring it all together. Brilliant. God… you’ve got really long fingers.”

“Not freakishly so, I hope.”

“No, in a perfect way. Can reach all my itches. Gather it together in a ball. Now knead it with the palm of your hand, like that. Fold it, and do it again. See, you’ve got a knack for this.”

“It’s very inspirational to have you at my back, so to speak. I can really feel your, ah, passion for this.”

“Then my work here is done. Give it a good sprinkle with the flour, and cover it with the towel. It has to rest for a bit so we can roll it out.”

“And what shall we do to pass the time while it rests?”

“Not that, you horny bastard. Get a pan for the sauce, and I’ll make the garlic bread.”

“Damn. I was so looking forward to trying out ‘young man desperate for a job and restaurateur willing to capitalise’…”

“The dough only rests for five minutes, and you know how I get when you look at me over top of your glasses, so not now. Wash your hands, and get the sauce warmed up, love.”

“Later?”

“Most definitely.”

**Day twenty-seven**

“Good afternoon, Gregory. Are you done working today?”

“What? Oh, hiya, love. You all done today?”

“No, but I’m taking a break from the madness that is Parliament. What are you doing?”

“What do you think of these trousers?”

“They are… are they for you? Gregory, you don’t need to change your clothing because of something I said in anger.”

“You, ah… may have been right. Maybe I could use a bit of an update. Who knows how long we’ll be quarantined, and I should have some better clothes. I mean, if you’re going to be looking at me all day, and… what?”

“Your clothes are fine.”

“They’re not. Obviously I look like I buy my clothes from a charity shop, and so I want to do better. Help me.”

“Gregory.”

“Mycroft.”

“Fine. Go to the website I’ve sent to your phone. It’s not bespoke, so uncurl your lip. It’s better quality shirts and trousers, and they have loungewear and pants as well.”

“’Welcome, G Lestrade’. Hm… seems like I’ve already set up an account. Oh, and put some things in my bag.”

“I anticipated this.”

“Orchestrated, more like. What a tosser!”

“I did not. Please believe me when I say that I didn’t purposely row with you so as to make you buy new clothing. I set up the account there and put things in the bag when I… well, don’t laugh, but I often go to clothing websites and pick items that I feel would be flattering to you. It’s very soothing, especially after a day of dealing with the Americans.”

“Are you blushing?”

“Perhaps it’s a bit warm in here, with the fire and all.”

“Maybe. But, it’s all right if you are, Mycroft. It’s just us.”

“Saying it aloud makes me feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.”

“It’s flattering that you’ve got a crush on me.”

“We’re married. Why would I have a crush on you?”

“Oi, I’m crush-worthy. There are tons of folks who have a crush on me. Call me a silver fox, and say I’m a hot boomer and what-not.”

“You are not a baby boomer.”

“I look like one.”

“Be that is it may, I cannot imagine a world where someone doesn’t have a crush on you, Gregory. I am quite fortunate that your taste in men runs to the unusual.”

“No one online has legs quite as long as yours, or would put up with this me. Look at Penelope.”

“Let’s not drag your ex-wife into this, hm?”

“Fine. So, Mycroft Holmes, what did you fantasise about? Oh, those are nice trousers… don’t know about that shirt, though. Looks like it would be too tight. I’m not thirty anymore.”

“It would be made to fit as you like, Gregory. The other items are loungewear, a few suits, and demins you can wear once we’re free to walk to the shops and have a leisurely brunch.”

“In form fitting shirts and trousers?”

“Cut to fit. It’s not your clothes, per se; it’s how you wear them. By not taking advantage of your ah, natural assets, you fail to… well, perhaps fail is too strong a word. In short, you don’t show your body to the best advantage in the clothes you have. Especially your loungewear.”

“What’s wrong with my… okay, so that’s a hole, and the shirt does look a bit tattered. But we aren’t all tall and elegant, looking like film stars in our dressing gowns, you know. Never thought I’d be made to be self-conscious about my clothes during a pandemic.”

“Again, I spoke in anger, not truth. You are gorgeous, no matter what you wear.”

“But my arse would look better in these… boy shorts? Mycroft…”

“Nothing fails save a try, my dear. If you don’t like them, you can go back to wearing your pants with holes. However, I don’t think I’d be able to contain myself, should you wear those pants. Your sturdy thighs and plump backside on display for my eyes only… I cannot help being affected.”

“This quarantine has turned your great brain to mush. All you think about is sex.”

“You’re mostly correct. I do, on occasion, consider the world, and how I can effectively assist Her Majesty with the current crisis.”

“But me in boy shorts is right up there, yeah?”

“I’ll be in my office for the next two hours. Order the clothing, Gregory.”

“Yes, master.”

**Day twenty-nine**

“Any sevens?”

“Go fish. Socks.”

“My feet will get cold.”

“Gregory, remove your socks. Fives, please.”

“You’re cheating.”

“I’m not. Thank you. Twos.”

“Holmes men always cheat at games. I’ll bet you didn’t shuffle the deck.”

“Trousers, if you will.”

“I’m not wearing pants underneath.”

“Better for me, then. Let’s have them.”

“Here are your bloody twos, and my trousers. Happy?”

“Oh, quite. Fours.”

“Go fish, you bastard.”

“You are the definition of a sore loser.”

“Twos, please.”

“If one were to look up ‘sore loser’ in the dictionary, your photo would be included as the example.”

“Take off your shirt. Fives.”

“Now who’s cheating? Is it chilly in here?”

“Trousers off. And I’ll take all your threes.”

“Go fish. Fives.”

“Damn it.”

“Shirt off. I win.”

“I’m still wearing my watch.”

“So you are. But, my dear Gregory, you are blissfully naked, and if memory serves, at my service.”

“Strip Go Fish. What has quarantine done to us?”

“While not ideal, the time we’re spending in such close quarters will sustain us in times of turmoil.”

“That’s Mycroft for if we can make through this, we can make through anything?”

“Just so. I can’t think of anyone else that I wouldn’t want to murder under these circumstances, Gregory.”

“I love you, too, you berk.”

**Day thirty-one**

“Gregory…? Gregory, why have you locked the door? Are you all right? Felix says you missed today’s briefing.”

“Yeah, I was up all night. Something’s happened.”

“What’s happened? Unlock the door.”

“I’m sorry, Mycroft, but you can’t come in. I’m sick.”

“Sick? In what way? Do you have a fever? I need more details. Open the door, or I’ll be forced to pick the lock.”

“No, no… don’t do that. I don’t have a fever. Just… a cough. Maybe a little coughing. Not much, but coughing. I’m tired. And then there’s the ah, pink eye. I think this is it, babe. I love you so much. Tell my aunt I love her, and make sure you get that money out of the lining of my coat.”

“There is no money in your old coat. It was deposited into an account for your aunt. You have pink eye? Are you certain it’s not just that you’ve rubbed your eyes too much?”

“So we’ve not got any escape money?”

“Not in the lining of your coat. And focus on what’s important.”

“That you stole my money isn’t important?”

“I did not, and not it isn’t. I assumed you left it there when you last wore the coat. It was such a trivial amount, I didn’t think you’d mind if I gave it to your aunt. I didn’t realise you were doing your own version of The Fugitive.”

“Great. I’m dying, and you’re joking.”

“I am not joking, and I don’t think you’re dying. Please show me your eye?”

“It’s highly contagious. That’s what I read online.”

“Not withstanding that we exchanged bodily fluids multiple times in the past twenty-four hours, I’ll humour you. Please send a photo on your mobile.”

“I can hear you rolling your eyes, Mycroft. Okay, sent.”

“Hm. Well, it’s definitely something.”

“I’ve said that already, damn it! Sorry for shouting… it’s just that I’m all congested. Nose is bunged up, and I’m just… I’m scared. What if I... I could die. You know, if it’s the thing.”

“You tested negative for the virus, Gregory.”

“It could have been wrong. I’ve got symptoms.”

“Not for the virus. I’ve sent the photo and a brief description of your systems to Dr. Casse for review. She’ll look at it, and let me know a course of action. While we wait, please tell me why you have ‘escape money’ squirreled away in your coat? Is there a plan to leave? Without me?”

“No, you arse. Why would I leave you? If this thing turns into a disaster and we have to go, we’ll need money, not cards.”

“We have a fund. Cash, carefully hidden, easily accessible when needed. Not hidden in the lining of a coat that we’ll most likely need to leave behind. Do you honestly believe I’ve not prepared for every possibility? It’s as if you’ve never met me.”

“I’m sick, and you’re pouting about me not acknowledging you as a mastermind.”

“I don’t pout. Ah, here’s the response. Seems to be a bacterial infection. A course of antibiotics and eyedrops will fix it straightaway.”

“Not dying, then?”

“Not dying. And if you were, I would surely be dying as well. Our quarters are remarkably close.”

“I panicked. Again.”

“You did, but I understand that perhaps you forgot that you were in the garden the other morning, and it was windy. You’ve been on guard for weeks now, doing all you can to hold it together. In light of that, I’ve asked Dr. Casse to provide a mild anxiety medication, which I strongly suggest you take tonight.”

“Knockout drops? Seems like overkill.”

“Your stress is affecting me. I think a night of anxiety free sleep would do wonders for you. And me.”

“I didn’t know I was –”

“You’re fine, Gregory. But, you should rest. Please.”

“Just don’t go on the run without me, hm?”

“I couldn’t. Please open the door, and come to bed. The medicine will be here shortly. I’ll get a gel pack for your eye, and read to you for a bit.”

“I’m sorry, love. This whole thing is just… god.”

“I am aware.”

“Scary. But I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else, you know.”

“I do know. The benefits of sheltering with you are unrivaled. I would love to have a conversation with Churchill, though.”

“He wouldn’t bake you bread. Or do that thing with his tongue. Unless you like ghost sex? Or would he be a zombie in your fantasy?”

“You have made me ill. Go to the bedroom; I’ll be there when I’m done vomiting.”

**Day thirty-nine**

“Egg all right?”

“It’s fine, Gregory.”

“Why aren’t you eating it? You think I’ve still got that infection?”

“Your eye is all cleared up, and you’ve gotten some much needed sleep. And I am eating it.”

“It’s untouched. Has it gone off?”

“No. It’s just a tad overcooked. One might say hard boiled.”

“I got distracted. I could have made you another, but you said it was fine.”

“It’s not. Nothing is.”

“Bad morning?”

“Yes. And you’ve made it worse, overcooking my egg.”

“It was your turn to cook. You get what you get, mate.”

“I was in conference, trying not to say I told you so about green dresses. Navy blue shows strength, I said.”

“They never listen. And who gets the sour face afterward? Me, your longsuffering spouse.”

“Longsuffering.”

“I am. More toast?”

“God, no.”

“What’s wrong with my toast?”

“Nothing.”

“I knew I should have ordered those sausage rolls from the cafe. Or just waited for you.”

“No, no, Gregory. It’s just… I fear that if I eat another piece of fresh baked sourdough bread, I will divorce you.”

“You said you liked it.”

“I did, twenty days ago. But now, there’s sourdough blobs in buckets on all the worktops, and you put in everything. Can I just have a piece of wheat toast, and a soft-boiled egg?”

“You can.”

“Why are you taking my plate?”

“Fix your own fucking breakfast, Mycroft.”

“There’s no need for swearing. I meant no offence.”

“I’m taking offence, and I’m swearing. Here I was thinking I was doing something, you know, making you meals, baking bread. But you’re such a tosser, you don’t even like being cared for.”

“I do like being cared for, and I am not being a tosser. It’s just… one can only eat so much… sourdough. Pancakes, buns, waffles, and that one dreadful hash you experimented with… I appreciate the enthusiasm in which you have embraced your new hobby, but I implore you, no more bread baking.”

“Right.”

“Petulance is so ugly.”

“Whatever. There are people who would love to have my bread.”

“Oh, no doubt. Don’t think I don’t know about _Hollywood Bakes Seventy_ , and the cheery ‘good morning’ messages every day.”

“Jealous?”

“Heavens, no. I’m just making you aware that I’m aware.”

“I know you’re a big bloody spy, and nothing gets by you. So what if I’m flattered that someone famous appreciates my bread baking? I mean, it’s just photos, but they get lots of likes.”

“I appreciate you and your bread. I’m just tired of it. Especially toasted. The roof of my mouth is very tender.”

“You sure that’s from the toast? You were very enthusiastic this morning.”

“Gregory.”

“Mycroft, it’s not a big deal, but I, ah… hell. The first time I stayed over, you had nothing in your refrigerator, and you were so embarrassed because it still had the packing tape inside. It was a bit sad, you know? And I thought, who takes care of him? Makes sure he’s got the things he likes when he’s had a bad day? And I wanted to be that person. And now, a mere three years later, you have fresh bread at hand, handmade pasta, and a perfect roast one Sunday out of the month. Not to mention a warm, hand-knitted blanket that matches your eyes.”

“I am grateful. Your restlessness translates to unhappiness to me, and it makes me, ah… uncertain. Maybe you could parse it out a bit?”

“Or you could go back to eating shite spag-bol, and that bible bread you choke down in the mornings.”

“The Geneva Convention prohibits torture.”

“Invoking it means you’re a prisoner or war. That’s what our relationship is?”

“Gregory.”

“Look, I’m trying to cope with all this. Change. Uncertainty. I like Intelligence, but being anxious all the time isn’t helping. So I bake, and try to find things that are soothing. I don’t have the ability to shove things into a mind attic or set them aside to worry about later. You’re lucky you do.”

“Mind palace.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m sorry. It seems like all we do these days is have rows. I don’t like to row with you. It’s pointless, and we say things, and it takes days to fix.”

“I’ll bet Mary wouldn’t row with me. She’d eat my bread and be happy.”

“Who is Mary?”

“Mary Berry, you tosser. She gives the heart eyes emoji for everything I post.”

“Does she?”

“Mycroft, I’m joking.”

“You’d better be. I’ll not play second fiddle to anyone who uses emojis.”

“I would definitely leave you for Mary Berry. Maybe if you were a more visible presence, she would get the message. You know… a like, a comment, or a picture of you eating some of my bread.”

“Or I could –”

“No. It took Anderson months to get those images off his computer. Don’t you have some business to tend to?”

“Yes. I’ll just have another cup of tea, and mmph…”

“Mmm…”

“Well, that’s one way to win a row. Kiss me again, but sit in my lap while you do.”

“Don’t you have work?”

“I do. This is more important. More attention to the neck, please…”

“Your wish…”

**Day forty-one**

“Good evening, Gregory. I trust your day went well.”

“You tell me.”

“Dear lord, what have you found out that I’ve done?”

“Have you done something?”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“The fruit of today’s labour won’t manifest itself for several days. Weeks, even.”

“Maybe a few days ago?”

“You are aware of my distaste for being interrogated?”

“Do you recall the heated discussion we had in which you shouted at me for an hour about panic shopping?”

“Vaguely.”

“Vaguely, my arse. It was last Monday. I got some packages in the mail, and you called me a hoarder.”

“It was excessive. No one needs that much flour or sugar. Or yeast.”

“I gave lots of it away. But that’s beside the point. A few packages came for you today.”

“Oh?”

“You do nonchalance better than anyone I know.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Yes. Did you order meat?”

“Ah… yes, I believe I did order a few extra steaks. Perhaps some fish. Maybe a lamb roast.”

“And a freezer unit?”

“I may have placed one in the cart, but don’t recall actually purchasing it.”

“Charcoal, and a top up of propane?”

“Hm?”

“Mycroft.”

“No comment.”

“You panicked, and stocked up on meat.”

“No comment.”

“It would help you if you’d say something in your defence, or I’m going to donate a few of those wagyu steaks to the local food bank.”

“Gregory.”

“Talk, you berk.”

“I merely reached out to a contact in… well, you don’t need to know where, when I was advised that he was going to close his establishment. He needed to sell his goods at cost, and so I assisted him by making a purchase.”

“What about the freezer and fuel those blokes in haz-mat gear brought in?”

“The freezer is obviously to store the meat. The charcoal and propane…? How else would we cook if the gas is off?”

“Wait, what? Do you know something?”

“I know many things, Detective Inspector, and like to prepare for every eventuality.”

“Oh my god, Mycroft… you panic shopped!”

“I may have had an adverse reaction to world events, and purchased a surplus of goods to ensure that those under my purview have adequate supplies.”

“Mycroftian for panicked and shopped.”

“Mycroftian? How absurd. Preparation is key.”

“Since everything came here, who are ‘those under your purview’?”

“You would need a higher security clearance for that information. Any more questions?”

“No need. You folded like a letter.”

“Or it may have been that I have no desire for you interrogate me unless we’re doing detective and investment banker with ties to the mafia.”

“I don’t like that one. You had someone follow me for two days.”

“I was going for realism.”

“Scared me shitless, so it worked. And now, sir… what meat are you keeping, and what are we donating?”

“Gregory…”

“Whinging will get you nowhere. You have enough meat to feed a small army, and somewhere, there are people who can’t get any. Figure it out.”

“I’m sorry. Right, then. The lamb is for Sunday. The waygu and kobe stay, as well as a few of the other top cuts. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“All right, that’s fair. But give Mrs. Hudson some of the good cuts, will you? John says Sherlock isn’t doing well being confined, and shot up the wall again. Scared poor Rosie, and so she and John are in 221C for a bit of space.”

“Oh, dear, I’m certain that Dr. Watson is very angry. I’d best call Mummy and ask her to have a word with her dear son.”

“Good luck with that.”

“On another note, did you see that I procured kebabs? That would make a delicious dinner, if you’re of a mind to use the grill.”

“We’ll see how well you do with the donation. I may even make a batch of hummus.”

“It’s only hummus if you use chickpeas, Gregory. Beets do not a hummus make.”

“Yeah, yeah… so I was lectured. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in my office. It’s my turn to read to the kids.”

“You are a good man, Gregory.”

“Say that after you’ve taken care of business, Mycroft.”

**Day forty-three**

“ _Yes, ma’am… no, ma’am… testing indicates… no, you shouldn’t worry about him. Our safety measures are –”_

“I’ll be back in about an hour, Mycroft.”

“ _Yes, ma’am. If I may step away for a moment to get that data…? Thank you, ma’am. A moment…_ Where… what’s going on, Gregory?”

“I have an errand to run. It’s contactless, so don’t worry.”

“I understand, but you can’t go to a shop. There isn’t anything we need, but people are there because they don’t have our resources. Please don’t do this.”

“I’m not going to a shop. I won’t even get out of the car. I’m running an errand, and will be back in an hour or so. Now, get back to your call before some Beefeaters come and arrest you.”

“Beefeaters don’t –”

“An hour. I promise I’ll keep my mask and gloves on, and won’t so much as breathe. Just… I’m okay. Go back to your call. You know she’s counting on you as the voice of reason.”

Gregory, please just… bugger. _Yes, ma’am… I have the information here…”_

**Day forty-three, two hours later**

“Mycroft? Where are you… what are you doing in here? Are you drinking?”

“Behold, a glass filled with liquid, and a near-empty decanter. What do you deduce?”

“And you’re pissed. Mycroft… what’s happened?”

“I am not pissed. I don’t get pissed. I am inebriated.”

“Splitting hairs is a sure sign. And why are you inebriated?”

“Because you went out. Into the cesspool that is this world. You blindsided me, and I couldn’t give my full attention to my work. And now, you may be sick, and what will I have? A plethora of sourdough starters, and a host of online admirers. **_Who use emojis_**.”

“Oh, love, no… I had on the mask and gloves. I had the spritzer disinfectant thing, and I didn’t get out of the car, or touch anyone. The car door was opened by a person with gloves and a mask, the package was put inside, door closed, and I drove off. No one even breathed in my direction. I wiped the package down with sanitiser, and came straight home.”

“And what was so important that you were willing to risk our health? And why were you late? And why did you wait until I was on an important call to leave? Are you sneaking around with some sourdough tart?”

“Yes, Mycroft. That’s just what I’m doing. I’ve got sourdough tarts all over town.”

“This is no laughing matter, Greg.”

“Oh, Greg, is it? I know we agreed you wouldn’t read me or deduce or whatever, but you could do it, and keep it to yourself. That way you’d know, and wouldn’t do things like this.”

“Where did you go?”

“To get a package. Want to see, or are you too drunk, er, inebriated?”

“Yes. And it had better not be anything stupid, like an oven, or more baking items.”

“You get very sassy when you’re pissed. And just for that, I’m going consider a new oven. Close your eyes. I’ll back in a tick.”

_“This is very childish. Close your eyes. As if I don’t know what’s –”_

“Okay… open your eyes, love.”

“What… oh, it’s a dog? Oh Gregory, you got a dog! I thought you’d forgotten. Hello, ah…?”

“Jack. He’s a German Shepherd and Labrador mix, about eighteen months old. His owners moved and the bastards left him behind like an old sofa, the poor lad. He was in training to be a service or police dog, but he’s a bit rambunctious, and kept failing because one leg is shorter than the rest. But he’s such a good boy, I knew I’d found the perfect dog for you. He knows how to sit, heel, roll over, shake, and fetch. Well, he’s still learning fetch means bring it back, but he’s very smart. He’s had all his jabs, is neutered, housebroken, and no fleas. And, all I had to do was donate to the shelter, and he’s ours after seven days, if we get on.”

“Of course we’ll get on. Look at him, already making himself at home. And he likes me. Hello, Jack. It’s nice to meet you. You are a good boy, aren’t you? Look at you, how handsome you are. Yes, you are. Do you have things, Jack? Where will you sleep? Did Gregory get the things you need?”

“So you’re going to ask me questions through the dog? You are pissed.”

“Why, yes, he did, Jack. He’s been storing them in the airing cupboard in anticipation of your arrival. He’s very smart, our Gregory, even though he worries me. You like your ears scratched? And your back? Look at you… such a lovely coat. We’ll have to give you a nice bath, because you smell like sanitiser. I think you should sleep in the master bedroom, perhaps a nice spot at near the fireplace, hm? Let’s go upstairs and see to the logistics, Jack. Look at your carriage, how regal you are, despite your leg. Such a perfect boy…”

“Um, yeah… I’ll just… so you’re headed upstairs, then? Mycroft…?”

“Don’t dawdle, Gregory. Bring the bedding so we can get him settled. There’s a good boy…”

“You better have been talking to the dog!”

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, a dog! And yes, that's Mycroft's honest reaction to getting a dog. Because as Mottlemoth put it, he's a jellybean. And a bit inebriated. 
> 
> Check me out on Tumblr as lyricalsoulwrites.


End file.
